Page 12 of Forced Bratva Wife

No, it was a bad idea. I knew that. There was still too much to confirm about Parker’s fucking father, and I had no way of knowing how well-behaved she was going to be. Later. Maybe later.

Stepping back and taking a few extra for good measure, I gave Parker one last warning for the evening.

“You may as well get comfortable. You’ll be staying here indefinitely. Thank Daddy dearest for that.”

She shook her head, her anger returning. “What are you going to do with me?”

I walked to the door, leaving her to simmer with anger behind me. “Oh, sweetheart. Didn’t you hear? There’s going to be a wedding, and we’re the guests of honor.”

The last thing I heard as I closed the door behind me was the small gasp from Parker that turned into a frustrated sigh. She could be frustrated all she wanted, but it wouldn’t change the fact that in no time at all, Parker would be calling herself Mrs. Lev Vadim.

Chapter 6 - Parker

The door clicked shut gently, the lock on the outside securing into place with a thunk I could even hear inside the room. I was alone, sitting on this pristine, beyond-comfortable bed, and I had been kidnapped.

“He sold me.” My heart hammered, the sound of the accompanying pulse too loud in my ears. “To be married off to some…some mafia thug.”

A tear slid down my face, the dam on that eye finally giving. But I wouldn’t sob. I wouldn’t fall apart right now. First, it would be pointless. Second, it was a strange realization to make - I was simply too numb to even try. The weight of everything going on was pushing down on me so damn hard that I just couldn’t anymore.

“How could he do this?”

I let myself fall back onto the bed, crawling up to the headboard before pulling myself into a ball. My phone slipped out of my pocket, and I gasped. I’d fallen asleep with it. Oh, thank god!

As I unlocked it and looked at my contacts, I wondered who to call. I knew that everyone would have a hard time reaching me wherever I was being kept. Should I just call the cops? But as I pulled up the number pad, I saw the notification for the last incoming call.

Dad called me right before this happened. Did he know?

Lightning panic raced through my nerves, and it was quickly followed by rage. How could he fucking do this to me? I knew I wasn’t exactly his “baby girl” like so many other fathers felt, but he got violent when he was drunk. Did he not care for me at all when he was sober?

It was stupid. I shouldn’t bother calling the man. I needed to get ahold of the authorities and get the fuck out of this place. And yet…

My fingers hovered over the number for a moment, but then I pushed with a hard jab. I needed to hear this from him. I had to listen to my dad try to defend himself, if only so I could shut that door forever.

The dial tone opened, and then it rang. I waited for an answer.

It rang two more times, and I waited.

Click.

My mouth fell open as I gaped. My dad ignored it. He’d sent the damn phone call to voice mail! I screamed, throwing the cell down on the bed. He couldn’t even be bothered to answer the damn call from his daughter, who he allowed—no, arranged—to be taken by the fucking mob.

Numbness had fled the building at this point, and I cried—hot, angry tears that did fuckall to help me. After a moment or so, I sniffled, whipping my face and pulling myself up to sit at the head of the bed.

“Okay, you’ve had your breakdown. Now figure out how to get out of here.”

I got up, circling the walls and starting to my left to see if I could find anything that might be useful here. There was a dresser with typical dresser things—socks, boxer briefs, undershirts. Next to that was a desk. In the slim drawers, I found pens, a letter opener, which I promptly took and tucked into my sock, and spare paper.

Then, there was the open entrance to the bathroom, a shower standing at the far wall with a tub next to it. It was good to know where the toilet was, but beyond the usual styling products and towels, there was nothing that I could use to make a getaway. Plus, the window didn’t open. It was just one of those sealed designs that only served to let in light.

I returned to the main bedroom and noticed that the door was still securely locked and impossible to pick. On the other side of the room, there was a closet and a chaise lounge. The only other points of interest were the two windows on either side of the massive four-poster bed. Looking down into the blackness of the dark yard, I could tell we were up pretty damn high. Still, I could risk an injury if it meant getting out of here.

But when I yanked on the window, it was locked, and flipping the tab on the lower pane did nothing to change that.

“Smart asshole.”

There was no way out of here, and I stamped my foot down when the frustration was too much to silence. My blood was heated, and despite everything, my stomach rumbled. I’d been awake too long without eating more, and it didn’t care if I’d been kidnapped. It wanted food.

I went back to the bed, sitting down and pulling my knees up to my chest. Yesterday, I had no idea there even was a large Russian mafia presence in Chicago. I was blissfully ignorant of something that was probably very obvious to everyone else. Now, I was intimately aware of what one of the higher-ups looked like—sounded like, and smelled like, too.

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